


Play With Fire

by nataliaa



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Drinking, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nataliaa/pseuds/nataliaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a long-ago tumblr prompt along the lines of: We're both superheroes, and we got really drunk last night, and oooh god what did we do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play With Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, this has been sitting on my computer for over a year, so I figured I'd just finish it off and post it already. Sorry not sorry for the ridiculousness and shameless fluff.

Grantaire slowly emerges into consciousness, head pounding and mouth fuzzy. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but it never gets more pleasant.

Slowly, he realizes that his entire body is sore, which is an impressive feat when you have super strength, and if he had the mental capacity to think right now, he’d wonder what exactly he did last night to earn a feeling that normal humans might liken to having been hit by a truck. He must have saved the entire fucking city single-handedly; that’s how much everything hurts.

Actually, his ass his particularly tender, come to think of it. He’s not sure what kind of heroic feats use that much ass power, but he’s sure anything that required such a full-body effort will be all over the papers to jog his memory.

Ever so carefully, Grantaire cracks an eye open, immediately flinching at the light pouring through his apartment. Blackout curtains are good for nothing if you’re too drunk to close them, he reflects mournfully.

With a hand over his face, he makes another attempt at opening his eyes, only to realize with a start that he didn’t close his curtains because, in fact, there are no curtains. He isn’t in his apartment at all.

Grantaire sits up with a thoroughly undignified groan, and gingerly contemplates his surroundings. He seems to be in a field – or, rather, a huge pit in the middle of what once might have been a field. Perhaps a forest, judging by the charred remains of trees around the edges. The sun is at twelve o’clock, shining ruthlessly down and reflecting off something shiny across the pit, and – oh. Oh, no.

The shiny thing across the pit is ridiculously luminous blond hair, and the hair is attached to a sleeping man, curls of smoke rising from the flames licking at his body. His very naked body.

Grantaire whimpers and flops back onto the ground, with a boom and a shock wave, and then winces at his mistake because –

“ _Fuck_ ,” says a voice. “Holy fucking shit, _what the fuck_.”

Grantaire does his best to feign sleep.

There are the sounds of shifting and scuffling, another, more pitiful “ _fuck_ ”, and then ominous silence.

“Grantaire?” says the voice after a long moment.

If he stays perfectly still, and breathes very evenly, maybe Grantaire can pretend this isn’t happening.

“Why are you naked?”

Shit. Grantaire sits up and raises an eyebrow at the other man. “Good morning to you, too, Enjolras,” he replies, failing miserably at levity.

“And why do I hurt _everywhere_? And where the fuck are we?”

“One question at a time,” Grantaire mumbles, desperately grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

“Okay,” says Enjolras. “Why are you naked?”

“Why are _you_ naked?” Grantaire shoots back as he realizes that it’s true, he is just as unclothed as Enjolras.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I never said it was.”

“For fuck’s sake, can you just—” Enjolras stops short, looking around them for the first time. His eyes flick from Grantaire, to the burned crater where they’re sitting, and back. “Um. How much did we drink last night?”

The question barely needs answering: Enjolras is only this foul-mouthed and ineloquent when he is fantastically hung-over.

Grantaire sighs. “To answer your questions, in order: I don’t know, I definitely don’t know, I have no fucking idea, and I don’t know but more than is strictly healthy or prudent.”

“Do you have your phone?”

“Do you _see_ my phone?”

Enjolras scowls. “No need to be an asshole about it.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath and makes a valiant effort not to laugh hysterically and, instead, to move their conversation in a direction that is actually productive. “Can’t you do your telepathy thing with Courf? Tell him to have Combeferre locate us and then to come pick us the fuck up. And to bring a couple pairs of pants, please.”

“You know full well that I disapprove of taking advantage of my friend’s superpowers for personal benefit,” Enjolras replies primly.

“And?”

Enjolras sighs. “And I already told Courf,” he mutters. “They’re on it.”

They lapse into a silence that might be described as companionable, were it not for the way that Enjolras is pouting and Grantaire is gingerly trying to stretch his aching muscles and they’re both pointedly looking anywhere but each other. Grantaire can barely move his legs, his thighs are so tender, and his ass feels positively bruised, and when he glances down he sees that he _is_ bruised – there are blue marks on his hips that look almost like _fingerprints_.

Memories hit him so suddenly that he starts, then grimaces when his sore back protests the movement. There were, in fact, some actual heroics the night before: Grantaire and Enjolras, for all that they don’t get along, often make a surprisingly good superhero team. Last night, Enjolras had held back the flames while Grantaire forced his way through the building to make sure everyone got out, kicking down doors and walls when necessary. It had all gone off without a hitch – they even rescued a dog and a mildly traumatized guinea pig – and Enjolras was in high enough spirits that Grantaire managed to drag him along for a drink at the Musain with the rest of the crew.

Enjolras and Grantaire weren’t the only ones celebrating minor victories last night. Joly and Bossuet had foiled a wannabe bank robber, Courfeyrac and Jehan had prevented a pileup on the highway, and Bahorel had apprehended a repeated sex offender. Solid heroics all around, really. Enjolras was glowing faintly as he chatted animatedly with Combeferre, whose glasses were slightly askew, and somehow the drinks that Grantaire pressed into Enjolras’ hand kept disappearing. His posture was relaxed, his hair was tousled, and really, Grantaire had no qualms enabling Enjolras’ night off. Besides, he was too busy matching Bahorel shot for shot to keep track of how much Enjolras had had.

The night was starting to transition from very late to very early when Courfeyrac and Enjolras suddenly flopped down at the table Grantaire was sharing with Bahorel.

“So, R,” Courfeyrac drawled, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. “Asking for a friend. Does the super strength thing apply to, like, all of your muscles? Like, say, your tongue?”

Grantaire choked on his whiskey and, when Bahorel had finished pounding his back and he could breathe again, glared as fiercely as possible at Courf.

Courf just grinned. “That sounds like a yes to me!”

“Depends on the ‘friend’ who’s asking,” Grantaire shot back, trying in vain to recover his dignity through his second-best weapon (after strength) of snark. “You know it never ends well when ‘Ferre and I try to fight.”

“It never ends well for _you_ ,” Combeferre added primly, popping his head over Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Another round?” Grantaire asked brightly, making to stand up.

“Enjolras will go with you!” Courfeyrac volunteered, shoving both Grantaire and Enjolras off toward the bar.

“I will?” asked Enjolras, stumbling slightly as he was forced out of his chair. Grantaire caught him with one arm and flushed as Enjolras was inadvertently pressed against his chest while finding his feet. When he glanced down, Enjolras was looking at him thoughtfully; his eyes were weirdly bright and Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure whether it was an alcohol thing or a superpower thing. “Yeah,” he said grabbing Grantaire’s arm. “Come on then.”

Enjolras was halfway across the room with Grantaire in tow when Grantaire realized that they were not, in fact, heading for the bar. “Wait, where—” Before he could get any further he was yanked outside, which he dimly registered as the alley behind the bar, where Enjolras had shoved him against the wall and promptly invaded his personal space.

“This, um. Isn’t the bar?” Grantaire gasped. Enjolras was framing Grantaire’s head with his hands braced on the wall, and the heat radiating from his body was enough to make Grantaire sweat. Not that he was complaining.

“I was hoping you’d answer Courfeyrac’s question,” Enjolras said lightly, his face inches from Grantaire’s.

“Question?” Grantaire leaned forward, nose almost brushing Enjolras’, and grinned at the way Enjolras exhaled shakily. “The question about just how strong I really am?” Without waiting for a response, Grantaire grabbed Enjolras by the hips and swung them around. As Enjolras’ back hit the wall, a crack indicated that there would be an Enjolras-shaped dent left in the brick. Neither of them so much as flinched.

Grantaire tightened his grip and pressed forward, Enjolras’ skin burning through two layers of clothing from hip to chest. He felt, more than saw, Enjolras’ mouth drop open. “Would you like a demonstration?” Grantaire murmured, shifting his grip to Enjolras’ wrists and pinning them up above his head.

“Jesus fuck,” Enjolras gasped, and he strained to lean forward and up to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Grantaire’s lips. “Yes, I consent to you putting your tongue wherever the fuck you want, as long as you do it right fucking now.”

Grantaire couldn’t keep himself from moaning, and couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed about it because really, when an invitation like that comes along, one cannot afford to hesitate. He kissed Enjolras again, lingering, gasping into his mouth as Enjolras struggled against Grantaire’s hold on his wrists. When Grantaire released him, cupping his face and pressing kisses along his neck, Enjolras immediately gripped his waist, as if attempting to shove them even closer together.

“Maybe – _oh_ Jesus,” Enjolras groaned as Grantaire found a particularly sensitive spot. “God, Grantaire – wait, maybe—”

Grantaire immediately froze, mouth hovering over Enjolras’ collarbone. This was it. Enjolras had changed his mind. Well, it had been beautiful while it lasted.

“Fuck, I didn’t say _stop_ ,” Enjolras whimpered, fingertips pressing bruises into Grantaire’s sides. “I was just – ah!” He gasped as Grantaire dove back onto his mouth. “Maybe – we should – mmmh – not do this in an alley? Behind – _god_ – a bar containing _all of our friends_.”

Grantaire, hands and face now buried in Enjolras’ hair, which was starting to look like molten lava, had to concede the validity of his point. “Valid point,” he conceded. “Hold on fucking tight, okay?” He trailed his hands along Enjolras’ neck and down his back, took a moment to savor the fact that he was somehow currently allowed to touch Enjolras’ ass, and then cupped it firmly and lifted. Enjolras automatically locked his legs around Grantaire’s back, and Grantaire took off. He was hardly aware of anything except Enjolras’ heat pressed against him as he ran for anything, anywhere more private, as near as possible so that they could—

Grantaire’s memories become blurry after this, a jumble of disjointed images that seem to culminate in Enjolras bursting into flame with a shout, buried deep in Grantaire. Grantaire has the impression of the golden fire consuming both of them spreading across the clearing, of Enjolras’ skin sparking when Grantaire dragged his fingers down Enjolras’ back, of a burning sensation that should have been excruciatingly painful and was, instead, unbearably pleasurable. He remembers locking eyes with Enjolras, flames reflected in both of their gazes, until Enjolras lowered his head to press his hot mouth down Grantaire’s abdomen, lower and lower, and Grantaire shuddered so violently that the very earth shook below them. After, he felt limp and spent in an entirely unfamiliar way, more exhausted than he had ever been after even his most spectacular heroics. He is certain that he fell asleep wrapped around Enjolras, both of them sweaty and sticky and utterly unconcerned by it. He has no idea how or when Enjolras got to his present position across the clearing.

Grantaire gingerly trails his fingers along the fingerprint bruises on his legs, remember the way Enjolras gripped him and flipped them over, rolling his hips against Grantaire, both of them agonizingly hard, never breaking their kiss. He gasps as his hands find particularly sore spots, and looks up to find Enjolras staring wide-eyed at him.

“Um,” Grantaire says. “I think I at least remember why we’re naked?”

Enjolras snorts and pulls himself slowly to his feet. He stretches lazily, wincing but completely unselfconscious about his state of undress. After rolling his shoulders with a groan that goes straight through Grantaire, exhausted or not, Enjolras ambles over and plops down next to him none too gracefully.

“About that,” Enjolras begins to say, then falls silent again.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow and when they make eye contact, he could swear that Enjolras blushes. “It’s possible that I don’t exactly remember the entirety of what happened,” he continues, “but even so, uh, I’m pretty certain that was the best sex of my entire life. Also—” Enjolras glances at Grantaire and looks away. Whatever he says next might be audible to any passing bats in the vicinity, but not to Grantaire.

“Super hearing isn’t one of my powers, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, nudging their shoulders together. “You might have to try that again.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Enjolras huffs, turning back to Grantaire. “I thought I was fairly obvious last night. Do I really need to spell it out?”

He leans in almost imperceptibly, but they’re sitting close enough that his intention is fairly hard to mistake. Grantaire can’t help grinning. “Yeah, I might need more information,” he breathes, shifting closer.

Enjolras’ mouth descends on his again, and it’s hard to believe that they did this for the first time only a few hours ago, because it feels like the most familiar thing in the world to tilt his head and bury his fingers in Enjolras’ hair.

After a moment, Grantaire makes himself pull away. “I’m definitely on board,” he says, only slightly breathlessly, “but could we maybe also use words, just to be sure? Is this like, a casual hooking up thing, or, um, a different kind of thing? Because whatever you want is fine, but you should probably know that I am very much interested in, like, holding hands and cuddling and shit, and I’m also kind of prone to horrifying fits of jealousy. Entire cities have been leveled, it’s not pretty.”

Enjolras snorts and kisses him again. “I have a minor jealous streak myself,” he says confidentially. “I think exclusivity would be in everyone’s best interest, don’t you?”

Oddly, it takes several hours before Courfeyrac and Combeferre come to their rescue. Neither Enjolras nor Grantaire notices.

When they finally make it home – covered in soot, Grantaire’s hair slightly singed, the sweatpants provided by Courfeyrac doing nothing to preserve their dignity – it’s almost a relief that Jehan and Joly forgo any giggling or innuendo in favor of immediately launching into a lecture about the dangers of forest fires.


End file.
